


Holmes' Anatomy

by Maeerin



Series: Nobody Knows Where They Might End Up [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, One Night Stands, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock-centric, Slow Burn, The Reichenbach Fall, third person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 21:45:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3463157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maeerin/pseuds/Maeerin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one-night stand Sherlock Holmes was determined to forget turned out to be with the love of his life. But as these things never happen at the perfect time, real life intervenes. These are the moments where Sherlock began to fall in love.</p><p>Prequel to Watson's Anatomy (not yet published).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oh, What A Night

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to Erin/johnlockaddled for editing this! Thank you!!!
> 
> This has been in the making since late spring/early summer of 2014, so it's finally ready now!
> 
> This is inspired by Grey's Anatomy, but you do not need to watch the show to get this. There will be some references/similar situations, but eventually this fic will serve as it's own. It's part 1 out of three so far, there could be a fourth which will be the last part.
> 
> Like Grey's Anatomy, each chapter is named after a song.
> 
> Enjoy :)

**CHAPTER 1**

 

_“The game. They say a person either has what it takes to play, or they don’t.”       ~ Meredith Grey_

 

The consulting detective eyed the room swiftly in one glance, counting up to only four possibilities for the end of the night. All he wanted was a shag, a _release_ , to put an end to this mind-decaying boredom. His current case wasn’t actually his yet, as the people of Scotland Yard were too stupid to see the connections in these current suicides. So here he was, Sherlock Holmes, at a tedious pub, looking for a man to fuck (or be fucked by, he honestly couldn’t care less).

Drunken youngsters began heading out and the seats beside him became empty and unfortunately, an invitation. The four possibilities reduced themselves to only two, and those were deemed simply as last minute resort. Sherlock decided to leave—it was already a waste of time for the short amount he had been there, and couldn’t care less about finishing his drink. A tap of a cane grasped his attention for just a mere second but then he ignored it. Apparently though, this man had other intentions.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before,” the man said, confidence strikingly bold in his voice. Sherlock kept his stare in front of him, and he responded, simply to drive the man away with a lack of reciprocating the interest.

“You’re not very observant.”

Sherlock expected the man to walk—limp—away. Instead, the man stood his ground and laughed. “And you are?”

This intrigued Sherlock just slightly and he turned to the man, placing a challenging look on his porcelain face. He eyed the man swiftly in one look up and down, and then read off his deductions as they came to him.

“You’re an army soldier, invalided home from either Afghanistan or Iraq. Your limp is at least partially psychosomatic. You have had experience with alcoholism, hence your hesitation with that second pint and third tequila shot. It’s most likely a family member, probably a sibling, perhaps a parent as well. You tend to be cautious on your drinking; yet going by what you’ve had so far you have control over it. Once you had calmed your nerves, you had planned to hit on one of the first suitable persons you see. Gender doesn’t matter to you; although you’re used to picking up women, this isn’t your first time with men. You’re acting on an impulse—a need for something different and exciting—hence you talking to me—not someone looking around desperate, but certainly someone who stands out and may need convincing via an intriguing mildly-flirtatious conversation. Since you’re a military man, the persuasion part comes almost natural to you.”

The detective smirked and turned away as the man gaped at him. He reached for his drink only to be interrupted.

“That…was amazing.”

Sherlock blinked and furrowed his brows. _That was a first._

“It was?” Sherlock asked before he could stop himself.

“Of course it was. It was quite extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people usually say.”

“What do they usually say?” the man continued.

Sherlock sighed but kept his gaze at the man. “Piss off.”

The man laughed again. Sherlock grinned slightly, feeling oddly intrigued by the invalid. Brushing it off, he looked away, still intent on ignoring the man.

“So you’re ignoring me?” the man pressed on.

Getting slightly annoyed, Sherlock shot back. “Should I not?”

“Nah, you barely know me.” The confidence was back, developing in a charming grin on the man’s face. _Charming, did I seriously just used the word ‘charming’?_

“Weren’t you listening to what I said? I basically announced your whole life story.”

The man shrugged. “There’s more to find out once you get to know me.”

Sherlock was further fascinated by this man and decided to go along.

“Really? So once I get to know you, you won’t be boring like everyone else?” Sherlock challenged.

Now it was the man who replied challenging. “You’ll love me.”

Sherlock regarded his with a skeptic eye. “Slightly narcissistic as well.”

He shrugged. “Just hiding my story.”

Sherlock scoffed. “I already know you’re story.”

“Ok, so what’s yours then?” the stranger asked.

“What makes you think _I_ have a story?”

“Everyone has one.”

This time, Sherlock shrugged. “I’m just a man in a pub.”

“And I’m just a man in a pub,” the man repeated, grinning flirtatiously. Sherlock looked down his form from head to toe. He was short, toned, not over weight or skinny but average. This man was just average. But something caught the detective’s eye. The man’s eyes were radiating in the center, but a tired dullness creased the edges of his pupils. The brown and green glimmered together, with blue around the center. He was confident, but desperate for something Sherlock couldn’t place a name to. It was like he was taking one last attempt, looking for something—or someone—to make him feel alive again, even just for one night. Sherlock decided to bring him to his flat for the night, and told himself that this was just for one night. He didn’t usually care for anyone’s problems—he still doesn’t, but this man in front of him seemed to be an expectation. Just for the night, though.

Sherlock blinked, redirecting his main objective of the night to his own pleasure and release, no one—nothing—else. He locked his eyes with the shorter man and put his coat on.

“Coming?” Sherlock asked, deepening his voice to boom with desire and lust in order to seduce the other man.

The man met his eyes. “Oh god yes.”

*            *            *

“Take your pants off,” Sherlock ordered as the man followed him to the couch.

The man—Sherlock refused to acknowledge him by name (only to keep the emotions and attachments out of it)—smiled and shucked his jeans off, followed by his pants. Sherlock squirmed out of his own clothing and then he found himself underneath the shorter man, not yet touching, but their breaths warming in between them and deepening with arousal.

The man took his shirt off and revealed a spider web-like scar over his left shoulder. There was a flicker of self-consciousness in the man’s eyes as he tensed, so Sherlock looked away. The man above him smiled shyly and relaxed; he leaned in closer to catch Sherlock’s lips, but the detective turned his head away. He never kissed anyone during sex; maybe a quick one in the end but he never initiated it. The man chuckled.

“All right, no kissing then. Just on the lips or every where else as well?”

That surprised Sherlock; normally the stranger would take what they got, nevermind how messy or distant it was. They had never asked.

In response, he revealed his neck further for him to take; this he didn’t mind too much.

The man leaned down and began pressing kisses down Sherlock’s throat. He sucked lightly and was thorough with them. A moan escaped Sherlock’s mouth, one that he did not give permission to. He grinned against Sherlock’s neck and nibbled gently before licking the area. His hands trailed down his sides to his lower back. Sherlock arched up to the touch, their cocks grazing each other.

The soldier gasped. Before he could speak, Sherlock rummaged through the table drawer with his long arm and pulled out a bottle of lube. Meanwhile, the man on top of him leaned back and pulled out a condom from his jeans. He applied it over his hardening cock and then took the lube and applied it.

Sherlock prepared himself like he always did and then turned on his side, facing the back of the couch. The man lined up behind him and gently took hold on his hip with one hand, and the other holding his own cock.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice rasping with desire.

“Yes,” Sherlock said deeply. The man gently dipped into Sherlock’s entrance and fully settled him in without moving too much. Sherlock adjusted and then rocked backwards, causing a moan from the man’s lips.

The man pulled just enough to thrust back into Sherlock. He was surprisingly gently, and once again in one night, Sherlock was fascinated by this man.

The man gently dipped into Sherlock’s entrance and pressed in gently, moving slowly until he was fully settled within him. Sherlock adjusted and then rocked backwards, causing a moan from the man’s lips.

Sherlock prepared to focus on his own release, when the man spoke from behind him.

“God, you feel so good.”

Praise—that was a first. His words sent arousal through Sherlock’s body, and he suddenly felt the need for more.

“Keep going,” Sherlock said, his voice rough.

The man thrusted his hips, and as he picked up his pace, his name was appearing on Sherlock’s lips before the detective could stop himself. He couldn’t recall when they had introduced themselves, but couldn’t care less now. He lost control of his moans and was actually starting to enjoy this release. The man’s hold on Sherlock’s hips tightened and with his other one reached down between Sherlock’s body and couch to reach Sherlock’s cock. He stroked it in sync with his thrusts. Pretty soon, the man was coming, Sherlock close behind.

“Oh, John—oh!”

They rocked the rhythms of their orgasms until they were both completely finished, their heavy breathing in sync in the silent flat.

It wasn’t until after he took aware of his surroundings when Sherlock realized he had moaned the man’s name during his orgasm. _That_ was a first.

“That was amazing,” the man muttered, obviously on the verge of sleep. He reached for tissues from the table and cleaned them both off before collapsing onto the couch, beside Sherlock. Sherlock remained facing the back of the couch, thinking. He stayed awake for a couple of hours before falling asleep as well.

*            *            *

At some point in the middle of the night, the stranger had managed to fall to the floor. Yet he had remained asleep, and now was still as a board, showing no signs of waking up. Sherlock eyed him cautiously, wrapping his dressing gown around his body. He would have gotten dressed, but didn’t want to start the shower and find the man attempting at a second round. One was enough. As much as Sherlock despised ordinary people, he sporadically found himself in a hell of boredom, and sex was the quickest way to relieve the spinning of his mind. He hadn’t needed to fall back on this plan in a while, until annoyingly recently, when D.I. Lestrade decided to keep actually interesting cases from him because he had gotten on the older man’s nerves.

The man in Sherlock’s flat was quite good, better than average. But he needed to leave now and out of the detective’s flat. Sherlock spotted a pillow and tossed it at the man, landing on his backside.

The man flinched awake and a groan escaped his lips. Sherlock smirked, knowing all to well the hard wood floor wasn’t the best choice to sleep after mind-blowing sex. Sherlock abruptly halted his thought at that description. _It wasn’t mind-blowing_ ; he assured himself, _just different and it had achieved its purpose._

The man stood up and the detective regarded him with distance in his eyes, but he couldn’t help himself and grinned.

The man grinned back and began looking for his discarded clothes. Sherlock found himself unable to keep it to himself and spoke.

“Last night was…good,” Sherlock offered, purposely placing uncertainty there. He knew it was good, but he rarely—no he never praised another being after a one-night. For some reason, he felt the man needed to hear the praise; it wouldn’t hurt.

“I think good’s a bit of an understatement,” the man replied and he smiled at the detective. Sherlock merely grinned back, keeping his eyes distant.

Sherlock decided now would be good to put an end to this interaction. . “So I’m going to go shower and when I come back, you won’t be here.”

The man chuckled softly. “We could do this again—.”

“We don’t have to do that…pretend it’ll be something special and last—where we exchange details, pretend we care,” Sherlock hurriedly said, despite his body’s spark of interest, much to his own surprise.

“All right then, that’s fine,” the man agreed, but Sherlock heard disappointment.

The man looked around and furrowed his brows when he couldn’t find what he was looking for. Sherlock answered for him.

“You left it at the pub.”

“Oh…” He raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised.

Sherlock smirked.

The man looked at him and raised his hand tentatively. “So goodbye, um…”

Sighing inwardly and raising an eyebrow, Sherlock raised his hand to shake the other.

“Sherlock.”

“Right, John.”

Sherlock grinned and then dropped the other hand abruptly. He turned on his heel and headed down the hallway. Once inside, he turned on the shower, and only one minute passed before he heard the front door close shut.


	2. Hungry Eyes

**CHAPTER 2: HUNGRY EYES**

 

_"In surgery there’s a red line on the floor that marks the point where the hospital goes from being accessible to being off limits to all but a special few. Crossing the line unauthorized is not tolerated. In general, lines are there for a reason: for safety, for security, for clarity. If you choose to cross the line, you pretty much do so at your own risk. So why is it, that the bigger the line, the greater the temptation to cross it?” ~ Meredith Grey_

_\----- _\------_ _\------_ _\------_ _\------_ _\------_ _\------_ _\------_ _\------_ _\------_ _\------_ -_

Sherlock strutted out of the morgue, holding his Belstaff coat protectively to his chest as he walked down the hall. He had spent the late morning beating a corpse with a riding crop, and now was heading upstairs to Molly’s lab. Her crush on him had turned out to be convenient after all.

He knew a shortcut, one that had low chances of bumping into someone who may not welcome his appearance, or one that foolishly would and attempt at conversation. Of course, this shortcut didn’t always serve its purpose.

“Hello Sherlock,” a voice echoed from behind him. “Off to Molly’s lab?”

Sherlock glanced around. “Oh, hello Mike. Yes, I was just heading up there.”

Much to Sherlock’s dismay, Mike stepped closer. “So how are things? How are the experiments going along?”

Mike Stamford was really just a boring person to even lay eyes on, however he was a teacher with association to St. Bart’s, and had access to experimental subjects for his classes, which he often allowed Sherlock access to, as did Molly. It was therefore important to at least try to talk to Mike, tedious though it was.

“Oh, just as predicted. Still looking for a flatmate though,” Sherlock reported as he recalled their last boring conversation. He wasn’t really looking for one, but one would be like Mike and Molly were to him. Convenient.

“Oh well I’ll keep a look out,” Mike said cheerfully. “I’m off to lunch. See you around.”

Sherlock nodded a brief goodbye and turned around. He walked quickly down the stairs to the basement, making his way to a forgotten about elevator that rested at the end of the hall, past the storage rooms of extra stretchers and wheelchairs. His phone beeped with a message; he pulled it out and looked at it just as a pair of feet formed in his vision. He had been walking with determination and didn’t have time to stop, therefore colliding with the shorter person, sending manila folders across the floor.

“Excuse you—,” Sherlock began harshly, directing his gaze back to his phone.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t—.”

Annoyed, Sherlock barely acknowledged him. Taking only a glance at the man’s feet, he began strutting away. “You should get that limp checked out. Doesn’t look more than a day old.” Without another look, he walked down the hall, but the stuttering man had other ideas.

“Wait, hold on—.”

Annoyed for getting interrupted again, Sherlock spun around harshly, but had been too quick and bumped hard against the man, causing him to stumble backwards against the corner of a stretcher.

The man grimaced but kept his gaze on the detective. “Out of all the places in London and I run into you on my first day of work.”

Sherlock met the man’s eyes and inwardly gasp. “You,” was all he could say.

The man—John—chuckled. “Yes, me,” he replied amusingly.

Sherlock looked at him from head to toe, eying the stethoscope, and smirked. “So you’re an army _doctor_ , not just a soldier.”

The man nodded. “Er, yes I am,” he replied with a sudden modest tone that contrasted with his flirtatious voice he used the night before, and his (slightly) narcissistic one.

Sherlock creased his brows slightly, finding himself at a sudden loss of words. “You, er, work here now?” he managed to say.

“Yeah, I just started today. Couldn’t figure that out?” John teased, shuffling his feet yet keeping his eyes on Sherlock. He licked his lips and leaned closer, as if about to ask… _oh no_.

Sherlock turned on his heal and walked away, only to glance behind his shoulder for a quick look. John’s face was still lit up by what he had been planning on saying, but as Sherlock walked farther down the hall, John’s face fell from disappointment to acceptance as quickly as the former first appeared.

 _Odd._ Sherlock thought.

*            *            *

The next day, Sherlock walked through the basement without encountering another person. He was carrying a jug of a human liver Molly had lent him, along with two smaller but empty jugs for later. His hands full, he nudged against the elevator button and pressed it. It opened right away, and Sherlock rushed in as another figure rushed out.

Glass shards splattered across the floor, his precious liver slopping down with it, the fluids surrounding it spilling over the shard-covered floor. Annoyed, Sherlock turned abruptly to face the cause of the crash, only to collide with the person again and slip on the fluids. The pair tumbled down with muffles of apologies, all coming from the other man.

“Sorry I—oh, you again,” John said, smirking apologetically.

Sherlock scowled. “That was a liver of a rare genetic disease. It took me ages to finally come across it.”

John peered at the liver and grimaced. He looked at Sherlock beneath him and smiled softly. Before he could speak, Sherlock pushed him off and stood up. He winced as his hand stung; he raised it only to sign with annoyance. He had cut his palm on a shard of glass, and it was inconveniently deep enough for a couple of stitches.

“That’s just perfect,” Sherlock snapped to himself. John stood up, carefully avoiding the shards and the fluid. He peered at the cut and stood up straighter.

“I can suture that for you.” he offered with another apologetic smile.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock lied. He could get Molly to do it.

“I am a doctor,” John said, his voice turning back to normal. “It won’t need more than a couple of stitches.” He picked up what he had been carrying and raised it to show Sherlock. “Suture kit,” he said proudly.

Sherlock huffed with annoyance but nodded reluctantly. “Why on earth are you carrying a suture kit around?”

John nudged him over to an empty stretcher along the wall. Sherlock scoffed but sat on the edge. “I was going to practice my sutures on…” John looked around and spotted a banana lying in the liver fluid. “On my lunch,” he said defeated.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. “Why would an army doctor need practice?”

John cleaned Sherlock’s hand as much as he could. “This will hurt,” he warned the detective. Sherlock just nodded for him to continue.

John started the stitches before answering. “I’ve been out of practice because of…” John trailed off, keeping his eyes downcast and focused on his work. Sherlock inwardly flinched at the pain, but it wasn’t hard to bear.

“You were shot,” Sherlock said flatly. John flinched, pulling tightly at the suture, causing Sherlock to flinch as well.

“Ow,” he said aggravated. It didn’t hurt much, but he said it anyway just to annoy the man. Maybe then he would appear rude and they would stop running into each other.

“Sorry,” John mumbled. Sherlock felt a tinge of guilt but it quickly disappeared.

John worked in silence, focusing intently on the wound and avoiding Sherlock’s eyes. The doctor moved rather gracefully despite being shot in the shoulder—Sherlock realized the connection with the shoulder wound he had seen that night.

“What is it that you do?” John asked out of the blue. He briefly looked up and nodded at the spilled specimen with a grimace.

“I experiment,” Sherlock said bluntly.

“Oh,” John replied and paused. “Do you work here or something?”

“Not exactly.”

John looked at him with interest, as if he wanted an actual answer. Sherlock sighed.

“I’m a consulting detective. I’m the only one in the world, I invented the job.”

“And that means…”

“When the police are out of their depths of knowledge, which is always, they consult me.”

“But the police don’t consult amateurs,” John stated with amusement.

“You’re right,” Sherlock remarked.

John’s gaze shot up. “About what?”

“The police don’t consult amateurs.”

The man furrowed his brows. “Which means…”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows expectantly.

John eventually got it. “You’re not an amateur.”

“Clearly,” Sherlock stated. John looked thoughtful and peered back at the wound.

John finished nicely, wrapping a small light bandage over the wound. “There we go. Don’t get it wet for at least a day or two, and you can come back to get the stitches removed in about a week or so. It may get infected; I didn’t have any proper anti-bacterial stuff, so watch for that that.”

Sherlock nodded and awkwardly stood for a moment too long. Was he supposed to be grateful? John was the one who had caused the mess—the mess in which Sherlock was planning to just leave and have someone else deal with, the liver being useless now. Perhaps he should get rid of that and not leave it to startle someone? Sherlock only dwelled on what to do for a moment and making up his mind, he turned around to leave when John caught him gently by his arm.

“So being a consulting detective…does that have something to do with how you know things?” John asked.

Sherlock turned around to face him. “It does,” he said without an explanation. “Thanks for…” He looked down at his hand and nodded at it. “This.”

“Not a problem.” John replied with a charming— _really? Charming?_ —smile. Sherlock flashed a tight-lipped smile in return, turned on his heel, and headed to the elevator. John caught his arm again and turned him around. Sherlock huffed, irritated, and opened his mouth to speak harshly when John stepped closer—too close—and stood on his toes. He kept a distance from Sherlock’s lips, but raised his eyes to meet Sherlock’s. The doctor licked his lips and looked at Sherlock’s lips for a moment before looking back up.

John raised his eyebrows, and Sherlock held himself still, prohibiting himself to move forward. He was suddenly at a lost of his ability to move away though. John stretched his neck and pressed his lips onto Sherlock’s. It was only a touch—barely would be categorized as a kiss—and yet it sent a shiver down Sherlock’s spine. Just as quick as it started, it ended with John lowering himself back flat onto his feet. He kept his eyes on Sherlock, and grinned softly. The shiver down Sherlock’s spine came to a halt and left a fluttering feeling in his abdomen. _What is that?_   

The pair remained motionless in place, their eyes still locked onto each other.

Before John could say anything or move, Sherlock stepped back and agonizingly slowly sifted his eyes away from John’s. He grinned but then stopped himself halfway, resulting in a half grin, half smirk, no doubt showing his confliction as clear as day. John tilted his head slightly but kept silent. Sherlock backed away to the elevator and pressed the button, still facing John. He didn’t have to wait long before it opened and he entered it backwards. As the doors closed, he saw John still looking at him with longing, which bewildered the detective.

_Odd. But interesting._

*            *            *

A couple of days later, Sherlock quickly entered the elevator and slammed on the button corresponding to the lab floor. Just as the doors closed, they reopened and none other than John walked in. The color on his cheeks rose and he stood a considerable amount of space away from Sherlock, keeping his face looking straight ahead. Sherlock did the same, keeping his back tense underneath his coat. He could feel John trail his eyes over his neck and down his body.

Sherlock peered out of the corner of his eyes towards John's direction; John looked away and focused back to the front of the elevator.

Suddenly, Sherlock did something he had not planned. He turned around and crowed John into the minimal space left of the elevator and jammed his back into the railing. Sherlock towered over him and looked at him like he was prey. John met his gaze, but couldn't help but gulp with surprise.

Quickly, Sherlock leaned down and captured John's lips against his. He kissed John senselessly; it took him a total of five seconds to realize John was kissing him back. Sherlock snapped his hands up and cupped John’s jaw; John’s hands remained by his sides far too long for Sherlock’s liking, so he reached for his wrists, lifted them up, and placed them onto his hips.

They kissed for several heartbeats, and came to an abrupt stop just as the elevator dinged open. Sherlock rushed out, without even looking back to see John completely disheveled and thoroughly kissed.

That didn’t help, not one bit. If anything, it left Sherlock even more conflicted.

***            *            ***

A day after his spontaneous make-out session with a complete stranger—well not entirely _complete_ —Sherlock peeked around the corner, eyeing the basement hallway for any sign of life.

It was just as quiet as ever. Slowly, he began a steady pace, keeping an ear out for any sound of another living being, particularly John— _what was his last name?_

The doctor was intriguing, much to Sherlock’s dismay. All night he could not stop thinking about him, feeling an overwhelming and confusing desire to find out more about him. But he refused to seek him out. Sherlock Holmes was anything but desperate, despite what others may say about his need for a distracting high—whether fulfilled by drugs or a thrilling case.

A sound echoed from behind the detective; Sherlock scurried away and knelt behind a discarded hospital bed. The footsteps drew closer, the person’s pace going at a steady speed. Sherlock remained kneeling in his hiding spot, and peeked closely at the metal part of a wheelchair in front of him. The person’s figure, no matter how distorted, was recognizable.

John walked down the hall, oblivious to Sherlock in his hiding spot. He walked right past him without a second thought. Sherlock didn’t waste any time; he leapt up and headed back the way he came. However, in a rush to get away, Sherlock collided into a wheelchair that hadn’t been properly put away, and fell, landing harshly on the basement ground.

The footsteps from the other direction stopped abruptly, and before he could stand back up, Sherlock found himself staring at John’s feet.

He looked up and found the doctor looking back down at him, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“So you’re avoiding me,” the man stated.

Sherlock sighed heavily. “Obviously.”

John offered him a hand, but Sherlock ignored it and stood up. Smirking, John eyed the man’s hand, observing the stitches.

“How’s your hand?”

“It itches,” Sherlock stated with annoyance—and maybe just a little bit of embarrassment, but he would never admit to that.

“So…” John licked his lips, which was something he had done frequently since they’d met. “Why were you hiding?”

Sherlock stood up straighter. “I wasn’t hiding.”

John chuckled. “Yes, you were.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I have to go.” He began to stalk off, only to be pulled at a stop, John’s hand gently around his.

“Wait, just…” The doctor licked his lips again, but this time with more hesitation rather than flirtation. “Let me buy you a cup of coffee."

“No, thank you.” Sherlock attempted to take another step, but John’s hand was still holding him place—it was rather gentle, and surprising _not_ unwelcome— _no, no! Don’t think that._

“Its just coffee,” John said with a soft smile.

Sherlock huffed with irritation, but for an unexplainable reason, he couldn’t bring himself to say no. “Maybe some other time,” Sherlock slipped out from John’s hold and stalked away without looking back.

*            *            *

Sherlock spent a week avoiding the basement. Realizing it was just silly, Sherlockreluctantly made his way through the gloomy hallway. He didn’t encounter anyone as he hurried through the basement and up to the lab floor.

Once he made it safely to the lab, he nearly lost himself in analyzing a substance underneath a microscope for his latest case, the itch on his palm the only thing tethering him.His hand curved uncomfortably against the stitches, but it was bearable. They should be taken out soon though, whenever Sherlock got around to it. He’d do it himself but wasn’t completely sure and didn’t want to cause any permanently damage to his hand, if that was possible from a couple of stitches.

Just as Sherlock proceeded with the next slide, the door creaked open, revealing Mike. Catching a glimpse of him and another trailing closely behind, Sherlock looked away and ignored them without a thought to manners.

“Huh,” the man mumbled. “A bit different from my day.” Mike chuckled.

“Can I borrow your phone Mike?” Sherlock asked without taking his eyes off of the slide.

“Where’s yours?”

“No signal on mine,” Sherlock replied.

Mike rummaged through his pockets by came out empty handed. “Sorry, must have forgotten mine.

Out of the corner of Sherlock’s eyes, the stranger eyed the detective suspiciously, yet held up his own phone anyway. “Here, use mine.”

Sherlock glimpsed up and was startled. _You again._ He stared at the man, trailing his eyes from the man’s phone to his face.

Sherlock looked at Mike expectantly

“John Watson. Old friend of mine,” Mike offered.

“Oh, thank you,” Sherlock said politely, feeling an unsettling awkwardness rise in the room. He took the phone and finished with it in less than a minute. He handed it back to the man—John, who had been on the verge of a smile this whole time—and met his eyes.

“Sherlock Holmes, by the way,” he introduced himself, taking John’s hand in a brief shake, who accepted kindly. “So it’s your brother who’s the alcoholic,” Sherlock stated rather than asked. John peered at him, his lip twitching.

“How did you do that, by the way? _How_ do you know things like that?” John asked. Mike grinned in the corner.

“Have you two already met?” Mike asked, but was conveniently ignored.

“I don’t just know. I saw. The way you hold yourself and your haircut says military. Your face is tanned and there’s a tan line not passing your wrists, so you weren’t sunbathing but you were abroad. Your limp was only partly psychosomatic; back in the pub, you didn’t sit down right away, preparing for an immediate turndown, so you remained standing, almost like you’d forgotten about it, suggests the wound was traumatic. So tanned and wounded in action, then Afghanistan or Iraq, it’s hard to tell.

“When you walked in just now, the comment you mumbled suggested you trained at Bart’s, and you clearly know Mike, so army doctor, obvious. Ignoring all that, there’s the stethoscope around your neck I saw earlier. At the pub nothing suggested your profession so it was easy to overlook,” Sherlock concluded and then peered at the shorter man. John was looking at him with…something Sherlock couldn’t name, but immediately blanketed his face and made up his mind.

“I don’t need a flatmate, so you might as well leave,” he said flatly as he looked back into the microscope.

John’s face immediately fell and looked at Mike, who just kept grinning, although he did start to look apologetic.

“What makes you think that’s what I’m here for?” John directed at the detective. Sherlock discarded the slide and stood up swiftly.

“I told Mike that I had been looking for a flatmate. Now here he is, with an old friend who just got back from military service. It was quite obvious,” he explained and smirked. He pulled his coat on and tied his scarf and swiftly headed towards the door only, to backtrack when the other man spoke.

John crossed his arms over his chest. “So you don’t need me, er, a flatmate, anymore?” he suggested, his voice softer.

 _He’s not as confident like he was before,_ Sherlock realized and pondered for a moment. _Maybe he won’t want to take this further—no, bad idea but…it would be convenient. He’ll be out of the flat by the end of the month if things go as usual as they go._

“All right then,” Sherlock said, causing John’s eyes to lighten up just the slightest. “We’ll meet at 7 this evening. I’ve actually got to go now, so—”

“Okay, wait, what’s the address?” John asked.

Sherlock hesitated in the doorway and stepped closer John. “221B Baker Street.” In a swift motion of his coat, he twirled around and left the room.

*            *            *

“Ah, Mr. Holmes,” John greeted the detective as he stepped out of the taxi.

“Sherlock’s fine,” he insisted.

“Of course, Sherlock,” John said, his voice sounding as if he was amused at something, but Sherlock couldn’t be sure as he was behind him and couldn’t see his face.

“This place seems nice, appears expensive,” John remarked.

“I’m sure it can be managed,” Sherlock said as he opened the front door and sped up the stairs. He was alone in the flat for only a moment, realizing just how messy it was before John stepped in. The man was quick on his feet, especially without the cane.

“So this is it. You’ve seen it before though,” he said.

“Not with this much light,” John remarked lightly. “It’s actually very nice.”

“Yoo woo.” An elderly woman appeared in the doorway. “Hello Sherlock.” She caught sign of John. “Oh, and you’re the man moving in.”

John smiled friendly. “Er, yes, possibly. John Watson.” He raised his hand to the woman, who shook it gently.

“This is my landlady, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock introduced.

“Lovely to meet you,” Mrs. Hudson said. “There’s a second bedroom upstairs if you’ll be needing two.”

John stuttered, much to Sherlock’s amusement. “We, yes, we will be needing two,” he said, his gaze drifting to the couch and then flickering to Sherlock. He blushed deeper when Sherlock met his gaze with a smirk.

 _That night won’t happen again._ Sherlock told himself.

*            *            *            *            *

“So, how’s your hand?” John asked as he sat down in the restaurant. Sherlock briefly looked down at his palm before answering.

“It’s healing well,” he informed the doctor.

“Good. Maybe I can take a look later and see when you can get the stitches taken out,” John said kindly. Sherlock nodded in response.

“So what is it that you—” John started after he ordered his dinner. Before he could continue, Angelo came back and set down a candle, and then left, winking at John. Sherlock kept his gaze out the window. He had decided to ignore any assumptions of their…whatever it was, in an attempt to appear distant and give John a hint.

“What is it that you do then?” John asked, not pointing out the candle either. “As a consulting detective?

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Well, you’re not exactly a private detective. Police don’t go to private detectives. And you obviously don’t work for them, not like an ordinary officer.”

“The police consult with me,” Sherlock reminded him.

“So, what, like freelance?”

Sherlock scoffed at that word. “In some ways, yes.”

John’s dinner arrived shortly after and he peered at Sherlock. “You’re not going to eat—.”

“Obviously.”

“Oh,” was all John said as he took a bite and silence fell upon them for a couple of minutes.

“What changed your mind?” John asked in between bites.

Sherlock’s gaze shifted to him for a moment. “About?”

“Showing me the flat. You seemed to have made up your mind when I came into the lab, but then you gave me your address anyway. I was just wondering…what changed your mind?”

Sherlock looked at him in silence and then shrugged. “Convenience.”

John nodded and then fell silent.

“I play the violin when I’m thinking,” Sherlock blurted out. “Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. I heard people like a warning of what they’re getting into when becoming…flatmates.” He said the last word with a tinge of disgust; if John caught that, he didn’t point it out.

“So you will consider it? You didn’t just drag me to a crime scene for nothing. Even after we—.”

“You’ve seen the flat. We should be able to afford it together. Like I said, it’s just convenient.”

John looked at Sherlock, but Sherlock kept his eyes on the street. He remained silent for a minute before breaking Sherlock’s thoughts.

“People don’t have archenemies,” John stated out of the blue. Sherlock hummed, not moving his gaze.

“In real life,” John continued, “people don’t have archenemies, maybe there are people they don’t like but not like enemies.”

“Well, I’m not most people,” Sherlock retorted.

“So who was it that I met then?” John asked.

“Not my problem now.”

John shrugged. “So—.”

Sherlock cut him off, but kept his eyes still beyond the doctor. “What _do_ people have then, in real life?”

“Um, well people they like, people they don’t. Colleagues, friends, boyfriends, girlfriends.”

“Uh, dull.”

“So you don’t have a boyfriend?”

Sherlock’s eyes darted to the army doctor. “If I did then why would I have had sex with you?”

John met his eyes and licked his lips. Sherlock flinched inwardly at the mistake to lock eyes. This man was intriguing—ordinary yet something about him was just… Sherlock looked down and avoided the man’s eye.

“So you’re unattached?” John more or less concluded then asked. “Just like me,” he mumbled.

Sherlock eyed him as he tucked into his dinner. He realized he needed to set the record straight before anything was assumed.

“Listen, John, I understand if you would want to attempt at something more but I consider myself married to my work and I don’t do relationships of any kind apart from _that_ night, and although I too found that night to be quite successful, I’m really not looking for any—”

“No, that’s not what I—,” John interrupted, catching Sherlock off guard. “I’m just…” He looked up, and Sherlock waited, expecting to look for another flatmate tomorrow. Again, the army doctor surprised him.

“I’m just making conversation,” John concluded. “It’s all fine. What we did that night was just…that night. And the kissing, too. Just a one-time thing,” he assured with a small grin.

Sherlock pondered this for a moment and then nodded. “I think that’s for the best.”

John nodded and went back to his dinner.

“So which was it?” Sherlock asked absently.

“Mhm?”

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Oh, Afghanistan.”

Sherlock nodded responsively. “Did I get anything wrong?”

John swallowed and seemed to ponder for a moment. “Seemed you got everything. I was wounded in the shoulder—”

“Left one?”

“Lucky guess,” John grinned.

“I never guess,” Sherlock smirked and John blushed as he realized how Sherlock knew that.

He grinned and continued. “And Harry is the alcoholic.”

“So I was right about everything.”

“Harry is short for Harriet.”

Sherlock’s face froze for a millisecond before falling back to its impassiveness. “Your sister! There’s always something,” he mumbled.

John laughed softly as Sherlock observed the street for another couple of minutes before perking up when he saw a stopped cab.

*            *            *

“That was ridiculous, that was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

“And you invaded Afghanistan.”

John fell into a fit of giggles, sending a warm shiver down Sherlock’s chest. He basked in it for only a moment and then shrugged it off.

 _Don’t make this complicated,_ Sherlock told himself. _It’s not worth it._

*            *            *

Sherlock glared at the inspector. “Then what do you call this then?”

“It’s a drugs bust,” the man claimed lightly.

John laughed in the back. “Seriously? This guy, a junkie?”

Sherlock cringed. It was almost certain now John would leave. He was an annoying, rudegenius _and_ a (recovered) drug addict. He turned on his heal and stared at John. “John…”

“What?” John turned his head sharply and met Sherlock’s gaze, finding himself rather close to the detective. They were so close that one move forward and their noses would have collided.

“Seriously?” John said again.

“What?”

“You.”

Sherlock scoffed and stepped back, the closeness overwhelming. He was sure no one from Scotland Yard had noticed. Apparently, he underestimated one.

“So how do you two meet again?” Lestrade asked, a grin forming on his face.

John’s eyes widened slightly and his blushed slightly. Sherlock ignored the two of them.

“Er, through a friend,” John mumbled.

“A friend? The freak doesn’t have friends,” an officer in the back retorted. John turned to face her.

“Yeah, you told me that.”

Sally’s face turned to disgust. “So, how did you two meet?”

“Like I said, a friend,” John repeated, his tone turning to annoyance. This time Sherlock blushed; someone was standing up for him, and even though he could care less, something about John’s tone sent a shiver down his spine—or was it a flutter?

“There’s a weird substance here on the couch. I’ll take a sample—could be something,” a man stated out of nowhere. John’s blush deepened. Sherlock wondered why; John had worn a condom, it would only be his own DNA, perfectly expected in one’s own flat. Sherlock should have cleaned up the mess but it hadn’t occurred to him then—which was another first. What was it about this doctor that caught Sherlock off guard so much to forget his own preferences?

“Anderson, what are you doing here?” Sherlock bellowed.

“Oh, I volunteered,” the man replied cheeky.  

Sherlock sighed heavily. “I am clean.”

Mrs. Hudson entered the living room. “There’s a cab here for you, Sherlock. Oh what a mess, what are they looking for?”

“It’s a drugs bust,” John answered quietly.

Sherlock regarded John for a moment; this army doctor was becoming very intriguing with everything he said. He didn’t seem repulsed by Sherlock’s drug past. But Sherlock put those thoughts aside for now; he needed to solve this case, he was very close, he could feel it.

*            *            *

Sherlock was on the bumper of an ambulance, stating off deductions of the man who shot the cabbie.

“You’re looking for a man with a history of military service, strong moral principle, and nerves of steel…” His gaze caught John’s from behind the yellow tape.

_Oh. Now that’s fascinating._

“Actually you know what, forget that, it’s just the uh, shock talking. I-I’m going to go—.”

“Hang on, I’ve still got questions,” the inspector exclaimed.

“Oh what now? I’m in shock; look I’ve got the blanket. And, I just caught you a serial killer.”

Lestrade seemed to ponder for a moment and then nodded. “First thing tomorrow.”

Sherlock didn’t acknowledge and stalked off, throwing the blanket off and into a car window. He stepped towards John, a smirk forming on his face.

“Er, Donovan was just explaining. Must have been dreadful, two pills.”

“Good shot,” Sherlock praised, much to his own surprise.

John nodded. “Yeah it must have been, through that window.”

_So he’s modest too, interesting._

“Well, you’d know.”

As if caught putting his hand in a cookie jar, John simply grinned mischievously.

“I’d doubt you’d serve time but lets avoid the court case; we need to get the powder burns off your fingers,” Sherlock continued as he peered at the man with a closer look. “You all right?”

John met his eye. “Course I am.”

“Well, you have just killed a man.”

There was that grin again. “Well, it’s true,” he mumbled. “But he wasn’t a very nice one.”

Sherlock pondered this and then began to walk off, allowing John to follow him. “No, no he wasn’t. An awful cabby too, you should have seen the route he took us to get here.”

John began to laugh and then tried to cover it up, but Sherlock joined in with a giggle.

“We can’t laugh it’s a crime scene,” John protested with yet another laugh. He managed to control himself as he kept his pace with the detective. “So, where are we headed?”

“Baker Street,” Sherlock said without too much thought, and then he stopped in his tracks. “Unless you…” Uncertainty clouded in his tone as he stopped in his tracks and looked at John.

“Unless I…”

Sherlock hesitated. “Do you still want the room? I’d understand if you—.”

“No, the flat will be fine, great actually,” John assured.

Sherlock looked at him for a moment longer and then smiled. “Dinner?”

“Starving.”

*            *            *

The pair entered 221B, laughter still bubbling in between them. As the door closed, the laughter subsided, and awkwardness took its place.

John hovered by the door; Sherlock began heading towards the stairs but then paused and turned around.

“Coming?”

John hesitated. “I don’t have my things with me. I’ll just go back to the bedsit and then move in tomorrow.”

They were close, closer than Sherlock realized. John was tilting his head up just a bit to be able to meet the taller man’s eyes. Sherlock’s throat suddenly felt tight, and he couldn’t form a word.

Neither of them moved for more than a minute, and when they finally did, neither of them was sure who moved first.

Their lips met, and once they touched, they were desperate for more. Sherlock clutched at John’s waist and lower back; John cradled Sherlock’s jaw in his hands, affectingly stroking the taller man’s cheekbones as he kissed him deeply. Sherlock moaned softly, causing John to kiss him harder.

The pair moved simultaneously backwards, Sherlock’s ankles hitting the foot of the stairs. The sudden impact brought the detective back to reality, and he broke the kiss sloppily, already moving his lips as he pulled away.

“This isn’t—I’m married, I—.”

John, who had been following Sherlock as he pulled away, stopped, but didn’t step back.

“You’re married?”

Sherlock removed his hands and leaned as far away as he could without tripping backwards over the steps. “Yes—no, I’m married to my work."

John’s shoulder had tensed, but immediately sagged with relief as he registered Sherlock’s correctness. “I know. You told me.”

Sherlock stuttered. “Yes and I—.”

“Don’t do relationships.” John finished for him, a small smile forming on his lips. “This could be just casual—.”

“No.” Sherlock interrupted bluntly. “This can’t continue. If we were to live together _and_ do this, sentiment will get in the way eventually.”

“I thought you didn’t _do_ sentiment.” John lightly told the detective. “As your arch enemy told me.”

Sherlock furrowed his brows. “When—.”

“He practically kidnapped me after you left that first crime scene. I told you, at the restaurant, but I’m not surprised you didn’t hear it. He said you don’t do relationships, I take it sentiment is included.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes slightly. “I wouldn’t phrase it like that, but no, I don’t do sentiment—and relationships.

For a moment John looked confused. “Then why are you concerned—?”

“It’s you who will develop something if we were to continue this. You’re a normal person, a romantic so far from what I’ve seen. It’s not me I’m concerned about— it’s you. I’m a high functioning sociopath; a sentimental relationship just won’t work,” Sherlock stated, his voice impassive.

John stared at him for a moment, and then a very light grin tugged at his lips, though he kept it from fully forming. His eyes glistened in the low lighting of the hallway, darkening the blue color of his irises. “All right. We won’t go any further than friendship, assuming you wouldn’t mind having a friend. I may be…ordinary, but you’re definitely not a sociopath.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then spoke, his voice stuttering just slightly.

“So…friends?”

John grinned and nodded. “Friends.” His grin turned into a smile and then turned around and left the flat. Sherlock remained where he was, an odd fluttering arising in his chest, and his brows furrowing in confusion as he stared at the spot where the John had stood a moment ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter will come next week. There is a surprise character, and the reason they aren't in the tags is because I wanted it to be a surprise. If you have concerns for whatever reason, you can talk to me on tumblr (maeerin.tumblr.com) in private, as not to spoiler it for anyone else.
> 
> Comment/Praise/Ask ~ you never know, I may update it sooner :)
> 
> [Edit: I fixed a continuity error, opps :/]


	3. Cyclone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cyclone: from Wizard of Oz, when the Wicked Witch of the West appears in the tornado. Maybe something wicked this way comes?
> 
> It's a short chapter, so I'll try to post chapter 4 this weekend. I have some research papers do really soon and need to get started on those.

_“_ _The fact is, lying is a necessity. We lie to ourselves because the truth, the truth freaking hurts.” ~ Meredith Grey_

\------------------------------------------------------------------

_“It’s fantastic.”_

_“Do you know you do that out loud?”_

_“Sorry. I’ll shut up.”_

_“No, it’s…fine.”_

Sherlock was stretched out on the couch, fingers pressed under his chin, his mind going over and over that…compliment. He was baffled, not over the fact that his abilities were _amazing_ , of course they were, but someone—another human being—had actually thought so. And that someone was currently moving his things in, more specifically, into his room upstairs, where there was a bed.

 _No,_ Sherlock told himself. _Don’t go there. He’ll probably leave anyway. Give him a week—no, a month, then he’ll run off, just like everyone else._

Sherlock did hope that this doctor—John—would stay long-term. He seemed to have enjoyed following the detective around London in search of a serial killer. Maybe he’ll tag along to other cases. Maybe they could be friends— _just_ friends. A long time ago Sherlock had separated himself from sentiment; all it did was cause hurt and confusion. There was no logic in relationships. Sex was easier. It was just a release, and because of that one night with John, he wouldn’t be needing that kind of release for a reasonable amount of time—longer than the average human, much longer— or until he hits a dry spot of cases. For now, he was perfectly fine. It was all going to be fine.

*            *            *

It was hell.

 _What the hell was John thinking?_ _“Sherlock, run!”_

_Seriously what? Was. He. Thinking?_

Sherlock huffed with annoyance in his armchair, hands brought up under his chin—his thinking mode. _What’s happening to me?_

It was early in the morning after the meeting with Moriarty; they had only been home for a few hours. Somehow, John had fallen asleep quickly; in fact, he was still asleep.

That is, until a scream snapped Sherlock out of his thoughts.

The scream halted abruptly; John had awoken himself up. Sherlock thought it sounded like a name, but couldn’t be sure. He was sure that it was about the pool. Being strapped to a bomb would have affected anyone, but John had PTSD, and so he was much more vulnerable. Sherlock knew not to mention his occasional night terrors, but this one struck him oddly. He felt he should offer some kind of condolence, since he had been at the pool as well. Maybe the dream involved him.

Taking a breath, the detective casually walked to the steps leading to John’s room. He paused; he could hear heavy breathing from all the way down here; he could even tell it was uneven. What if John was having a panic attack and couldn’t catch his breath? He could pass out and Sherlock wouldn’t even know.

He began walking up the steps, purposely stepping on the creak to give John a warning that he was coming. He reached the door and knocked softly. The heavy breathing only continued, but another sound formed. John was thumping against something to what? Get Sherlock’s attention?

Sherlock turned the doorknob to find John sitting up in bed, his back towards the door. His hand was clutched at his chest and his other clenched tightly in the sheets still tangled around his waist and legs. He was breathing fast and unevenly, definitely hyperventilating.

Without speaking, Sherlock rushed forward and kneeled by John’s bedside. John was pale and covered with sweat and…tears. His eyes were tightly shut and his chest heaving, drawing in shallow breaths.

“John—.”

The man choked on a sob and raised his hands to his head. He rocked back and forth slightly, still unable get control of his breathing. Sherlock was at a loss. He’d never been in this kind of position before, but backing out now seemed a bit not good.

He slowly stretched out a hand and rested it over the hand John had covering his face. He stilled slightly, his whimpers coming to a gasping halt. His breathing was still uneven.

“Take a deep breathe John, and hold it in,” Sherlock suggested.

John inhaled a ragged breath and held it, but exhaled too soon and the breathing returned to its too rapid pace. Sherlock stood and settled on John’s bed. Before he could suggest trying it again, John practically lunged at him and clutched at his dress shirt tightly in his fists. He buried his face into the crook of Sherlock’s neck. A couple of minutes passed and John’s breathing was returning back to normal, slow but improving.

Several more minutes passed in silence. John’s shuddering had stilled, but he remained pressed against Sherlock’s chest, keeping his hands clutched firmly in his shirt. Sherlock’s hands remained by his sides, unsure of where to place them.

Sherlock refrained from thinking too much into this close contact, but got lost in his attempt not to think about it when he realized John’s grip had slackened.

“John?”

He hesitantly raised his hands and peeled John off of him. The man was asleep, his face red and blotchy from the tears and sweat. His eyes twitched underneath his lids but he didn’t awaken. Sherlock gently laid him down back in the covers and laid the duvet back over his body, not too tightly but enough to keep him warm through the rest of the morning. Sherlock stood, and headed to the doorway. He paused and looked at John’s sleeping form, and then left, closing the door only part away, leaving enough space for anyone sound to come through, just in case.

It was well past mid-morning when John came downstairs. Sherlock was in the kitchen, looking at mold through his microscope. He felt it best not to mention what had happened, unless John brought it up. And it seemed John didn’t want to. He walked down the hall into the washroom and showered. Ten minutes later he was in the kitchen, preparing some tea. He hadn’t uttered a word and Sherlock was beginning to fidget. Was what he did wrong? Perhaps he should apologize.  Before he could come up with a thing to say, John (thankfully) broke the silence.

“Tea?”

It took longer than it should have for Sherlock to process the words, but then murmured please and kept his gaze looking through the microscope. John stared at him for a second longer, a quizzical look appearing on his face, before he turned around and prepared two cups. Sherlock pretended to focus intently on the mold.

John placed Sherlock’s tea on the counter within reach and, with his own in hand, headed towards the sitting room. John’s phone rang but he ignored it. Sherlock couldn’t help but feel flattered that it wasn’t important enough to be answered, at least until one of them broke this awkward silence.

John paused behind the detective. Sherlock could sense unease in his stance, yet despite this, John raised his free hand and rested it on Sherlock’s shoulder: a silent thank-you-and-lets-not-talk-about-it gesture. It was over as quickly as it started. Clearing his throat, John dropped his arm and continued his way to his armchair.

Sherlock straightened his posture and continued looking at the mold through his microscope. He ignored, with difficulty, the warm fluttering emerging shyly in his abdomen.

*            *            *

The following week after the confrontation with Moriarty didn’t go by as easily. John had a nightmare at least every other day, but Sherlock was able to calm him down by playing his violin. He never went up there again; it wasn’t because he didn’t want to, but he knew somehow that that was crossing a line. John had been appearing rather distant throughout the week though; his phone ringing more often than usual, though by the look of his face, Sherlock deduced it was a relative he didn’t want to talk to, most likely (probably) Harry.

It was morning when a yell interrupted Sherlock as he was reading the morning paper, followed by a muffled sob. Soon enough, John emerged in the hall, heading towards the bathroom and deliberately keeping his head down. Sherlock wasn’t close to his violin, and he didn’t think that would make a difference now that John was awake and up.

John washed and dressed and appeared in the kitchen, preparing his usual morning tea. His phone rang; he ignored it. That was the last straw for Sherlock.

“Oh, just answer it all ready,” he said, keeping his eyes on the newspaper still opened in his hands.

“Not important,” John mumbled.

Sherlock huffed in response. “Clearly to someone, it is.”

“Do we have any cases?” John asked, changing the subject casually as he made his way to the table, setting his breakfast down, his back facing the doorway.

“Nothing of interest,” Sherlock muttered with annoyance.

Just then, the doorbell rang, shortly followed by Mrs. Hudson’s greetings. She soon appeared in the doorway, a figure of a woman behind her. “Boys, you have a client,” she said and then she left, allowing the woman to walk—more like strut—in.

Sherlock glanced at the woman. For an irrational moment, he was glad he had gotten dressed today, as the woman was nicely put together and otherwise, he wouldn’t appear professional (he knew John would fuss over him when she left). Her shoulder length platinum blonde hair contrasted against her black wrap dress. She clearly just had her hair dyed, originally being a dark red color.

In slow motion, Sherlock deduced her. Her stilettos harshly clicked on the floor; she was confident in them, had money from family. She hadn’t taken off her faux-fur coat, so she wasn’t planning on staying long. In fact, Sherlock couldn’t deduce why she was here in the first place, which irked him. A wedding ring glistened against the morning rays on her ring finger: married for three to five years, happily as it clearly has been cleaned on a regular bases so no (obvious) marriage problems. No money problems, no kids, a successful career as a nurse—no, doctor, in her residency at a close by hospital. Maybe John knows her. 

Sherlock stood up swiftly to greet her, but stopped abruptly as John gasped behind him. He looked from the client to John, and found his blogger and the woman exchanging revealing looks: she was looking at him like she had beaten him at something, her eyes glimmering with triumph. John glared at her with a variety of emotions: annoyance, then acceptance, and even a tab bit of anger. He flickered his gaze to Sherlock, expressing a neutral look, though a tad apologetic. John stood up straight and glared at the woman.

Sherlock stepped closer to them. “You two know each other…” he began, but John interrupted him a bit harshly, unlike his usual tone.

“No shit,” John muttered. Sherlock felt slightly put out, normally John would have allowed him to announce his deductions, and yet at the same time he was having difficulty finding the relation between the two. It wasn’t Harry, the expensive clothing made that obvious. Who the hell was this woman? An ex-girlfriend seemed more likely, but this much hatred coming from John—sweet, gentle John—it seemed unlikely. A co-worker with disagreements seemed likely, but then why come here to talk to John?

John directed his glare at the woman. “Mary. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Well, you‘d know if you answered any of my calls.”

John glanced at Sherlock. “Sherlock I’m…sorry,” he said, although it sounded like a question, as if he didn’t know if he should be apologizing, since he didn’t know how Sherlock would be reacting and whether or not he would want one.

Sherlock furrowed his brows. This woman—Mary—turned to the detective and smiled. Sherlock didn’t like her smile—it was cheeky, triumphant, and cold.

“Hi.” She raised her hand and shook Sherlock’s, who hadn’t noticed he had raised his own.

“And you are?”

“Oh, how rude.” Mary’s smile widened. “I’m Mary Watson.”

Sherlock’s stomach dropped, his face flushing and his voice becoming less stable without his permission. The only word he could form was, “Watson?”

Mary grinned. “And you must be Sherlock Holmes, the man who’s been fucking my husband.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason why I didn't mention Mary in the tags is because I wanted this to be a surprise. She only has a small role in this part, though she has a larger one in Watson's Anatomy. Her characteristics are a bit different, and her backstory is very different from canon. If you can't stand her, and/or have worries, send me a message on tumblr if you can, that way not to spoil anything for everyone else.
> 
> Comment/ask/subscribe :)


	4. Falling Slowly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Falling Slowly - Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova

_“We can’t help ourselves. We see a line, we want to cross it. Maybe it’s the thrill of trading the familiar for the unfamiliar. A sort of personal dare. Only problem is, once you’ve crossed it’s almost impossible to go back. But if you do manage to make it back across that line you find safety in numbers." ~ Meredith Grey_

_\-----------_ _\----------_ _\-----------_ _\-----------_ _\----------_ _\-----_

“We haven’t been fucking, Mary,” John responded quickly. Sherlock was stuck in place, his eyes fixed on this woman who decided to just waltz into their flat and take John away from him— _no, no! Don’t think that, you and John aren’t even together,_ Sherlock told himself harshly.

Sherlock blocked out the bickering couple and focused on the facts he had known up to this point. There had been and still was no sign of a ring on John’s left ring finger—no tan line, not even a faded one. John had been on dates over the past few months, even after _their_ one night. He went out with Sarah without a problem, apart from the kidnapping. Nothing suggested she had found out about Mary. Mycroft would have known, he should have warned him. Sherlock rethought that, ‘warned’ was a bit of exaggeration, but he should have been told.

Why had John kept this a secret? It wasn’t as if they were divorced. They were still married, according to Mary’s ring, _happily married_ , at least on her part. Then why would John leave? They must have gotten married before Afghanistan, something happening on one of his leaves, resulting in a separation. But then after he was discharged, he appeared to be a broken man with no close relations, so whatever had happened between them, it must have been so bad that John wouldn’t even consider going back to her. John’s voice suddenly broke into Sherlock’s mind.

“Sherlock?”

The detective looked at him. He looked hesitant, as if unsure what this meant. It wouldn’t change anything—, shouldn’t, they weren’t together so why would it.

But for reasons unknown, an ache thumped hard in Sherlock’s chest, as if his whole world had been obliterated. It was terrifyingly similar to the feeling he had felt when John had falsely appeared to be Moriarty a week ago.

“It appears you two need to sort things out,” Sherlock snapped harshly as he hurriedly walked into his bedroom, ignoring John’s hurt expression.

“Much appreciated,” Mary retorted, but Sherlock ignored her.

Sherlock knew it had been too good to be true, to find a person who accepted his rude personality and befriended him, to find someone that even he actually cared for, still made no sense to him. And now here was the proof. This was why he didn’t form any kind of relationship—it just had never worked out like what he and John had.

But the simple idea of just ending this friendship with John seemed out of the question. What they had was good—really good. They were starting to become very good friends, probably even best friends if John were to categorize it. This was just a bump in the road; it didn’t mean anything.

Why would it? But then, would John move back with his wife? Would he visit Sherlock on the weekends like he was any other ordinary mate?

Sherlock paced around in his room, his fingers brought up under his chin. So far, he could tell that the couple currently in his sitting room arguing had been separated when he and John first met, and most likely had been for a long time. The thought that he was just revenge, or just a literal sense of _one night,_ to John seemed unlike the John Watson he had come to know, and yet it seemed the worst case scenario. At first maybe it had been revenge or an attempt to forget his wife, but their friendship was real, no matter how it had started.

Sherlock lost track of time and before he knew it there was a knock at his door. John opened it enough to peer inside, but he didn’t walk in right away. He remained silent in the doorway, his face half covered by the door.

“You can come in, John,” Sherlock said impassively as his pacing came to a halt; he kept his back to John, not wanting to deduce what the man had planned to say by his very expressive face.

John hesitantly walked in, but kept the door open. “I realize I owe you an explanation—.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock interrupted.

“What?” John stared at him. “It matters to me,” he mumbled.

Sherlock turned around and faced him. “You have your secrets, I have mine. It doesn’t matter,” he said in a clipped voice.

John bristled slightly. “Look, just let me say this. You weren’t revenge,” he began, as if Sherlock’s deep fear had been obvious, and yet it still caught him off guard.

“Mary and I got married before I left for the army; it was a heat of the moment kind of thing. After a couple of years, I came back home for a two-week leave to find her in bed with who was then my friend and our classmate from med school, David. I took off my ring and left it there and never saw it again. We are unofficially separated; I just assumed she would have divorce papers waiting for me when I came back, or at least I would file them. But then—.” John paused, his voice cracking just a bit, but he kept his gaze steady.

“You got shot.” Sherlock concluded for him.

“Yeah.” John said, resigned. “She never showed up. Not at the hospital, or at the airport. I just assumed she was done with me. I didn’t bother contacting her; I figured she would eventually send divorce papers. Even after I moved in here with you, I kept an eye out.”

John inhaled and stepped closer. Sherlock instinctively stepped back. If John noticed, he didn’t react.

“You weren’t revenge,” he repeated. “I was long over it; I was just looking for a one time thing, because I…” John grinned slightly. “Well, you know me well enough now. I just needed to take a risk to feel…something.” _Alive._ Sherlock thought but kept silent.

John continued. “And it turned into something…” He looked at Sherlock, begging slightly for Sherlock to meet his gaze. Sherlock refused to.

John sighed. “Something remarkable…something I wouldn’t give up for anything.” He paused, allowing Sherlock a moment to respond. Sherlock thought hard, but what could he say? Okay? All right, you’re married, no big deal? But for some reason, it still hurt. He didn’t know what to say, so he said just that.

“I don’t know what to say,” Sherlock said above a whisper. “I don’t do relationships—haven’t—and that includes friendships—everything else is just association. But what we have had—this arrangement (John cringed at that word)—has been…” The words proved to be hard to come to the detective, so John kindly suggested one.

“Good?”

“Yeah, good,” Sherlock agreed. “This is why I don’t get involved.”

“We’re not involved,” John said, his brows furrowing.

Sherlock blinked. “Oh, right, yeah, I mean…” he stuttered, suddenly embarrassed by what he had said and what it implied.

“Involved with people, as friends?” John suggested lightly.

Sherlock nodded. “Friends, yeah.”

A flash of disappointment occurred in John’s eyes, but Sherlock only barely caught a glimpse of it, not enough to further dwell on.

“I corrected her by the way,” John mumbled. “About us…fucking,” he said awkwardly, as if trying to lighten the mood.

“It wasn’t a very good deduction,” Sherlock pointed out.

John looked taken aback for a mere second. “Well it’s partially true. But I corrected her so…”

“Look,” John tried again. “I do understand that you don’t do relationships of _any_ kind, and that I was sort of you’re first…friend or whatever…”

 _Wrong,_ Sherlock thought, but allowed him to continue.

“I…” John was obviously unsure what he wanted to say so he trailed off, and remained quiet.

Silence engulfed the pair for a few minutes.

“So are you going to…” Sherlock trailed off this time, unsure how to phrase his question. When he couldn’t finish it, he reframed it. “What are you going to do?” he asked, hoping it was clear what he was asking about.

“We’re, uh, getting a divorce. She only came here to confront me, after all this time. She had found my blog, which has our address. But anyway, we both agreed that it’s best to just finalize everything; she suggested a second chance but…” John shrugged. “It just seems like a lost cause anyway,” he stated, looking down.

“Are you sure about that?” Sherlock offered.

John placed his hands in his pockets and nodded. “Sherlock, are you…” he trailed off, obviously hesitant in what he wanted to ask.

“Am I what?” Sherlock softly encouraged him.

John inhaled and looked up. “Are you alright?” he asked barely above a whisper.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It just you seem…” John shuffled his feet. “You seem bothered.”

“Why would I be bothered?” Sherlock shot back, his temper rising slightly against his will. He was uncomfortable and if bothered was the word of the day, then yes he was, but he didn’t know why exactly and certainly didn’t want John to know.

John stepped back. “I just…I—.”

“John please save yourself from further embarrassment by your imbecile need to stutter. I’m fine. I’m not _bothered_ by the fact that you are married. This is why I _don’t_ get involved; sentiment gets in the way—the need to _care_ what people think. It doesn’t matter to me. So you can leave now,” Sherlock snapped before he could stop himself. He gulped when he realized what he said and turned his back away from the look of hurt on John’s face he managed to catch a glimpse of.

John remained there for a few seconds before he shuffled away, closing the door behind him with a soft click, all without uttering a word.

The feeling in Sherlock’s chest remained there, thundering painfully and creating a lump in his throat. He swallowed and reached absently for his violin, only realizing he had left it in the sitting room.

*            *            *

The next few days were excruciatingly awkward, at least in Sherlock’s mind. The idea that John might move out despite his pending divorce circled endlessly in his mind and Sherlock blamed it on his irrational fear of losing John. _Ugh, sentiment!_

John had been talking to Mary sporadically over the phone, actually answering her calls this time rather than ignoring them. Usually they would always end with John huffing with annoyance. Fortunately, he never lashed out at Sherlock, and kept to himself as his irritation boiled down until it was practically forgotten about…until the next time he talked to her.

Mycroft had indeed known that John was married. He never thought it was worth it to inform Sherlock, as he had been convinced (even went to tell Sherlock this himself) that John was just a friend, and nothing more. Sherlock had been annoyed when his brother raised an eyebrow once he realized where Sherlock’s sudden interest and infuriation was coming from: that Sherlock did in fact care a little more than he had planned to about a certain army doctor. This resulted in a day wasted sulking, as well as Sherlock planning his brother’s demise for holding this information from him as a way of dealing with his frustrating boredom that the sulk brought along with it.

A few months passed without any significant change. Then one day, John came up the stairs with a slight uplift in his footing. He had been seeing Mary a couple of times over the past couple of weeks, dealing with whatever. He wasn’t annoyed this time, but at a neutral calm. Sherlock looked up at him from the sofa and instantly knew what was on John’s mind.

“You’ve settled the divorce then.”

“Yeah,” John confirmed as he settled in his armchair. “You wouldn’t believe what I walked into at her flat. Or maybe you can guess,” John said teasingly, yet his face refrained from grinning.

Sherlock thought through the most possible scenarios and settled on three—no, two—most likely. “You walked in with her and David in bed together.”

John chuckled, though the laugh didn’t reach his eyes. “Not quite. She was in her robe and he was in the shower. He came out just after we finalized everything, including emotions and whatnot.

Sherlock nodded and peered up at John hesitantly. “Does this mean…is this a celebratory thing or a let’s-get-drunk kind of thing?”

John looked at Sherlock and real grin tugged at his lips. “Neither actually. It is sad, divorce typically is. But I’m glad that it is over; no more having to wait around for it to be so.”

“So you’ll never be seeing her then?” Sherlock asked as he settled back into the sofa.

“Doubt that. She works at the Royal London Hospital, so I might run into her now and then; it’ll be causal friendliness. It won’t be often, but at a conference perhaps. She did admit she wanted to remain friends so she could get to know you, for her own personal agenda or whatever. She still thinks we’re, as she put it ‘fucking like bunny rabbits’, but I set the record straight. She still didn’t believe me,” John concluded, sighing as he stretched up and headed towards the kitchen.

Sherlock didn’t respond. He curled up tightly and faced the back of the sofa, attempting and failing at getting his confusing thoughts and feelings ( _not that!_ ) in order.

*            *            *

A month later, John was painfully, obviously jealous. Captain John Watson, army doctor and blogger, was jealous of Irene Adler. What irked Sherlock was that the reason for John’s jealousy was unknown, and proved tricky in figuring out. For once, though, Sherlock pretended John wanted him in the way Irene asserted: on the table—or any table—right here and now and with him begging for mercy, twice. Whether it’d be _him_ or John doing the begging, Sherlock didn’t—wouldn’t—let his fantasy go that far.

*            *            *

Sherlock had no problem sharing a bed with John. But his blogger was willing, too willing, to sleep on the floor.

“I probably won’t even sleep during this case so you might as well take the bed,” he stated, since it was the obvious arrangement.

John stared at him for a moment, as if evaluating his options. He straightened his posture and gave the detective a nod, and prepared his things by the bedside. Despite Sherlock’s statement, John conveniently stayed on one side, leaving room for Sherlock just in case. However, Sherlock could tell the man went to bed a little tense.

 _What did he think was going to happen?_ Sherlock wondered.

That one-night stand was long ago, practically forgotten about. It didn’t matter anymore, yet the detective felt an unexplainable desire to slip into bed and curl against John.

He didn’t.

What bewildered his mind was _why_ he suddenly felt that desire. It was shocking to himself, a too intimate thought he hadn’t had or truly felt before.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary's character here is only to set her character for the second part. If you have concerns/questions, feel free to ask me.
> 
> Last chapter will come next week, or sooner. The next part is Watson's Anatomy and that'll come as soon as possible, although I'm not sure when exactly, but I'll let you know when I post chapter 5. 
> 
> Ask/Comment/Subscribe please :)


	5. White Flag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another big thanks to bookaddled/johnlockaddled for being my beta for this fic :D
> 
> There are scenes from The Reichenbach Fall, but the dialogue has been changed a bit. Remember, this was just a prologue for the main fic, Watson's Anatomy.
> 
> There's implied Sherlock/original character, but there isn't anything detailed and hopefully makes sense after you read it

**CHAPTER 5: WHITE FLAG**

_“No matter how hard we try to ignore or deny it, eventually the lies fall away, whether we like it or not. But here’s the truth about the truth: It hurts. So we lie.” ~ Meredith Grey_

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock was bored, so bored he felt like exploding would suffice, however a dull thing to do, but at least it would be something. He needed some kind of release now or he felt he _just_ might burst.

John was out for the day, working or something or other. He probably told Sherlock, but he must have deleted it.

By evening, Sherlock had racked the entire flat looking for his secret stash of cigarettes, but John must have discarded them, for they weren’t in any of his hiding spots, not even under the skull.

One optioned remained—well two, but Sherlock knew John would be angry (and disappointed) if he came home to find Sherlock high. It felt different, to consider someone else’s feelings, but Sherlock didn’t like how he felt when he disappointed John.

So only one option remained: sex. He could have a wank, but sex was honestly quicker. For him to get himself off, he’d have to think on something specifically and he really wasn’t in the mood to do that. He could think about John, but that was dangerously crossing the imaginary (and almost completely pointless) line. Might as well have someone else do it for him. He won’t even remember their name.

He hadn’t had sex since John. _Why?_ He just hadn’t needed that kind of release until now. Before he could go mad with thinking what John will think, Sherlock dressed nicely—as nice as he could bother with, and left the flat. He planned to come back well within the night, after John had gone to sleep. Perhaps he should leave a note? Sherlock pulled out his phone and texted his flatmate.

**I’m going out tonight. Don’t wait up – SH**

He sent it before he could proofread it. It wasn’t until he arrived at a pub (a different one from the one he met John in), when John responded.

**Okay. Thanks for letting me know. – JW**

Sherlock stared at it for a moment. What if John would have sex with him…just as friends? No, that wouldn’t work; they were friends—good friends, his one friend as he admitted when they had that Baskerville case. Having sex would only complicate things. It wasn’t worth the risk.

Sherlock pocketed his phone and masked his face with fake desperation and walked into the pub.

It wasn’t until well past midnight, when Sherlock shuffled in, a stranger following close behind. He would have gone to his place, but the stranger had insisted Sherlock’s was closer to the pub and Sherlock was in no mood to find someone else. He just wanted to get this over with.

He brought the man to his bedroom and closed it. He could have sworn he heard a creak leading up to John’s room.

*            *            *

The stranger left hurriedly, though that might have had something to do with Sherlock harshly kicking him out before he could even say a word.

The night was…not worth thinking about. It did its job, yet Sherlock felt odd. He had kept thinking of John during the whole thing—wondering ‘what would he think’ and ‘would he mind’. It was aggravating. What was so special about John and why was he thinking of his only friend this way? Was it even normal? The most absurd out-of-the-question possibly infiltrated Sherlock’s mind, and he harshly pushed it away, forbidding even the terrible idea of it.

 _There was no way. That wouldn’t happen to me,_ Sherlock told himself.

He walked into the kitchen and found it empty. He could hear John just starting to come down the stairs, so he turned the kettle on and began rummaging through the morning post Mrs. Hudson had kindly dropped off.

John entered the kitchen, looking odd as well. Silence encased the room as John started to prepare the kettle, grinning only slightly when he found it was already boiling.

“Have a late night?” John asked.

Sherlock’s gaze shot up to his. John chuckled.

“Hey it’s fine. Whatever you do in your free time isn’t any of my business.”

Sherlock regarded him for a moment and then spoke. “It was dull.”

John chuckled again, but the chuckle didn’t reach his eyes, although his eyes did flicker with something…else. Sherlock couldn’t define it, no matter how hard he tried to squint at John without arising suspicion. He continued with his activity, but found he couldn’t quite focus on anything for the rest of the day.

*            *            *

Jim Moriarty made himself comfortable in Sherlock’s armchair. Sherlock sat in John’s, who fortunately wouldn’t be back for a while, giving the two plenty of time to _catch up_.

The consulting criminal twirled the apple in his hand. “An apple a day keeps the doctor away,” he mumbled.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. “I prefer oranges.”

Moriarty grimaced. “You’re starting to become ordinary. Such a shame. I was just beginning to have fun with you.”

“You’re nowhere near done with whatever it is you have planned. Don’t let ordinariness scare you away,” Sherlock shot back coldly.

“You need me,” the man responded. “What’s a story without its villain?”

“A story without its plot, climax, and end,” Sherlock answered flatly.

“That was a rhetorical question,” Moriarty snapped.

Sherlock smirked slightly. “You got to the jury of course,” he said, changing the subject.

“Of course. Getting into twelve hotel rooms doesn’t even compete to the Tower of London.”

Sherlock sighed dully. “Ah, cable network.”

Moriarty smirked. “Every person has their pressure point.”

Sherlock met Moriarty’s eyes. “So how are you going to do it then? How do you plan to _burn_ me?”

“Oh please, a villain doesn’t reveal his plans, not until the very end, right when you’re on the edge,” he whispered the last few words maliciously with his singsong voice. “Besides, that’s the final problem. Our problem.”

Sherlock kept his gaze steady at the other man and waited for him to continue.

“It’ll start soon Sherlock, the fall. But don’t you worry; it seems you have already fallen. It just matters whether you’re willing to climb back up…before you fall again. That part is inevitable. And then you won’t be able to climb back up.”

Sherlock tensed but kept his face blank.

“Besides,” Moriarty glanced away and stood up, twirling the now carved apple in his palm. “Falling’s just like flying except there’s a more permanent destination. For the most part at least.”

Sherlock stood up with him. “Leaving already? You barely touched your tea.”

“I have places to be. You’ll hear from me.” Moriarty held Sherlock’s gaze as he strutted to the door, leaving the carved up apple on the armrest.

*            *            *

John’s back was tensed, looking out the window. Sherlock mumbled something, which only caused John to snap.

“Sherlock, I don’t want the world to believe you’re—,” he cut himself off at the look of Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock swallowed a sudden lump and questioned the man in front of him. “That I am what exactly?” he asked, fearing the answer.

John sighed. “A fraud.”

It all made sense now. John was worried that if the idiots at Scotland Yard were right about Sherlock, then that would mean Sherlock had lied to John from the beginning. The detective could see what his face would look like if that were true: disappointment and hurt. But it wasn’t true, not one word of it.

The detective couldn’t bare the idea of disappointing John; he himself was the one person John was loyal to: believing in that lie would ruin everything they had.

“Moriarty is playing with your mind, John,” Sherlock said calmly, but the thought of losing John to those lies was all too great and he snapped. “Can’t you SEE WHAT’S GOING ON?”

John didn’t so much as flinch and stared at the detective.

“No I know you’re for real,” he whispered.

“A hundred percent?” Sherlock asked skeptically.

“Well nobody can pretend being such an annoying dick all the time,” John replied, the slightest grin twitching at the corner of his lips.

Sherlock stared at him; the army doctor turned back to the window but Sherlock kept staring. This was what he was afraid of. Sentiment. But right here, Sherlock realized it was much greater than sentiment. He had actually started to _care_ —but no, that had happened long ago. It was something more… _no not that! It can’t be…could it?_

Sherlock knew deep down—very deep down—it was bound to happen but had almost hoped it wouldn’t, that maybe John would turn out to be like everyone else and declare him a freak.

It had been a relief when John had turned out to be so much better than he could have ever imagined, and had proved it on numerous occasions. Sherlock not only realized he cared about John, but that he didn’t mind that he had succumbed to sentiment. In fact, he couldn’t imagine not caring now.

It was like coming up for fresh air after he had been drowning for his whole life. He had been weighed down and heavy but empty at the same time, and then…John limped into his life. Here was someone more than a friend—it must have crossed over the platonic boundary at some point—but here it was, a warm feeling in his chest at the idea that John cared about him—more than anyone had ever before in his life.

Sherlock inhaled deeply and stared at nothing for a moment, collecting his thoughts. _This isn’t good. This, this was what Moriarty was talking about—my fall. And yet I haven’t fallen completely, there still was room to climb up. But maybe I don’t want to climb back up—no, no, get it together!_

He couldn’t—wouldn’t—address this sentiment by its name. _Maybe, just maybe, John shared the same sentiments as I do—no, no!_ Sherlock corrected himself. _It’s too late now. Moriarty has to be dealt with, and if that meant keeping a distance from John, then so be it._

Sherlock was still anxious as to what Moriarty had planned for his “fall”. Whatever he was going to have to do to end this game, he knew for certain John would do everything he could to prevent it from happening. His efforts would be in vain; Sherlock knew it was inevitable; So he made his own plan.

*            *            *

 “Oh god, she’s dying Sherlock, let’s go.”

“You go. I’m busy,” Sherlock snapped.

John turned around sharply. “Busy?” he repeated harshly.

“I’m thinking,” Sherlock absentmindedly claimed.

John gaped at the detective. Sherlock ignored it. He couldn’t stand that expression on John’s face, it didn’t fit with his cuddly jumpers.

“Doesn’t she mean anything to you?” John claimed.

“She’s my landlady.”

John gaped. “You—.” He clenched his mouth and glared murderously at the detective.

Sherlock blanketed his face with his emotionless mask and turned towards John. “You what?” he tempted dangerously.

John breathed heavily. “You machine! I honestly—I don’t know what I ever saw in you. Sod this. I’m going then. You stay here on your own if you want.”

“Alone is what I have, alone protects me,” Sherlock stated in a monotone.

John grabbed the door handle and swung it open. He looked back at the detective briefly, disappointment in his eyes, but deeper down, Sherlock caught a glimpse of hurt.

“No. Friends protect people.”

And then he was gone.

*            *            *

Sherlock looked down across the distance at John.

“I’m a fake, John. The newspapers were right all along,” Sherlock said, his voice cracking without his permission. He inhaled deeply before continuing. “Tell Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly. Tell anyone who would listen to you. I created Moriarty for my own purposes—.”

“All right shut up Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met, you knew everything about me, about Harry—.”

“Nobody could be that clever.”

“You could.”

Sherlock’s chest pained at those words. This very act was breaking him, lying to John, when all he wanted to do was confess how he felt. Despite his desperate attempts to withhold himself from sentiment, that one night in the pub had changed everything. He should have known better.

Yet he wouldn’t give that away for anything.

“Sherlock, listen. I know sentiment isn’t your thing, but I think it’s different now yes?” John hurriedly said. “Is this because of what I had said earlier? I think I need to say this then, to set the record right—”

Sherlock gasped softly. John knew. It must have been obvious and now he was going to say that they were friends—just friends, and only friends. Sherlock needed to stop him. He couldn’t go through with the plan if he was rejected.

“No, John, don’t,” he said firmly. “I researched you. I’m not the genius I said I am. It’s just a magic trick.”

“No, Sherlock. Stop. Listen to me. I—” John began walking towards the building. Sherlock panicked.

“No stay exactly where you are!” Sherlock bellowed over the phone.

“All right,” John said, his voice trembling. He raised his arm up, as if surrendering. Sherlock reached out towards him.

“Do this for me John, please.”

“Do what?”

“This call, it’s my note. It’s what people do don’t they?”

“No, Sherlock, don’t—.”

“Goodbye, John.”

_I’m doing this for you John. This is for you._

As Sherlock spread his arms out like wings, he could have sworn he heard his name being shouted below, a scream that resembled the shattering of a heart.

He fell.

Below, surrounded by people of his homeless network, the consulting detective laid as still as possible, after placing the rubber ball under his arm. Time seemed to slow down, but eventually, he heard John’s voice breaking in the distance.

“Let me through, please. No, please, he’s my friend. He’s my friend.”

John’s hand wrapped around Sherlock’s wrist, but the detective knew that he wouldn’t find a pulse. He could practically picture John’s face falling with disbelief and anguish.

The shallow, whimpering breaths he heard coming from John were all it took to shatter the remaining pieces of Sherlock’s apparent heart into mere dust.

*            *            *

“You never told him did you?” Mycroft asked as Sherlock redressed and prepared for his mission.

“Told him what?” Sherlock asked.

“You know what,” his brother said gravely. “I suppose it would have made you more _involved_ than you originally planned.”

“I’m not involved.”

Mycroft sighed heavily. “Sherlock…”

“There was nothing to tell.”

“Only a fool would believe that, Sherlock. Although I suppose it’s for the best.”

Sherlock spun on his heel and glared at him. “You _suppose_? You _suppose_ it was for the best? There wasn’t anything to tell!” Sherlock exclaimed. “It wouldn’t have changed anything. He doesn’t feel the same way as I do. Why would he? He’s denied it every chance he’s got.” Sherlock was spilling it out before he could stop himself.

 _“I don’t know what I ever saw in you,”_ echoed in his mind.

Mycroft eyed him with pity. “So now what? Wait until you get back? Perhaps you should think that through—.”

“There is nothing to think through because it’s too late now!” Sherlock bellowed. “And it’s _if_ I come back. Moriarty has left a network that goes well into Eastern Europe. It’ll take me a year, two at most. The snipers targeting Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and John are my priority. I have to do all that I can to keep them safe, to keep John safe.”

He inhaled and eyed his brother, lowering his voice. “If I were to…not come back from this,” he said with hesitation, “don’t tell him that I had survived the fall. Dying once in front of him was enough, hearing about my actual death would break him, that I’m sure of.”

He regarded his brother with the most rare look ever to bestow upon his face: brotherly compassion.

“When you come back Sherlock, tell him,” he said sternly, as if giving out life-or-death orders.

Sherlock stared at his brother, and with only a brief nod, he turned on his heel and slipped away from sight.

 

_There's a saying—you won't know what you have until it’s gone. That’s true. But there is always something more…complicated than that. He's leaving now, thinking everything's lost for good. But it's not. It might be when he comes back, it might not—he doesn't know it yet. Life isn't just through his perspective, there's always another one—another story to be told._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully you enjoyed this fic :)
> 
> Watson's Anatomy is currently being edited and I will get chapter 1 up as soon as possible! Here is a hint for those Grey's Anatomy fans: Finn the vet ;)
> 
> It will be more of a inspiration/fusion from/with Grey's Anatomy and Sherlock, but you don't have to watch the show to read the fic.
> 
> Questions/Concerns/Asks are always welcome. If you want detailed answers that would contain spoilers, message me on tumblr: maeerin.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments so I have some idea what you think. I hope to drag people through an angst-filled journey of pining so the more the merrier (and quicker updates). :)
> 
> Subscribe for notifications. I'll post the next chapter in a week or so, after midterms. It's already written and edited, just a few more checks and then it'll be posted.


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